


Gainful

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Grinding, Living Together, M/M, Massage, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:21:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26374156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "'Work can be fun,' Takeshi says as he comes up behind Hayato’s chair and leans down to fold his arms across the back of it, pressing close to the white shirt whose rumpled disarray speaks as clearly to the length of Hayato’s day as the tousled waves of his hair. 'Depends on what you’re doing.'" Takeshi finds a means to occupy himself while Hayato is working.
Relationships: Gokudera Hayato/Yamamoto Takeshi
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51





	Gainful

Hayato is busy when Takeshi gets home.

He doesn’t need to say anything. Takeshi can see it at once from the forward slouch of the other’s shoulders, the sunk-in hunch echoing his youthful fiddling with bombs now replaced with endless documents that are less immediately explosive but potentially far more dangerous than the reworked fireworks he used to secret about his person. If Takeshi comes around the kitchen table he’ll be able to see the crease of Hayato’s silver brows drawn together on the wrinkle that has become nearly everpresent under the demands of the Vongola, will be able to see the sharp downward angle of the other’s mouth as he turns the full force of a well-practiced scowl on the inanimate reports scattered across the surface in front of him.

The wise thing to do would be to shut the front door as quietly as possible, to set his things down and look into ordering takeout instead of risking the distraction fussing in the kitchen would require. Takeshi knows that, with the clear certainty of well-polished battle instinct; and he smiles to himself, and reaches out to push the front door shut with no such care.

“I’m home,” he calls down the hallway, pausing in the entryway to tumble his shoes into a pile alongside Gokudera’s carefully-polished and deliberately aligned pair. “Whatcha doing, Hayato?”

Hayato growls a sound uncannily akin to the noise Uri makes when Jirou gets a little too enthusiastic. “Work.”

His voice is clipped to an edge that promises the threat of blood if pressed, but Takeshi regularly trains with Superbi Squalo and has a habit of facing down guns with a katana, so this is more appealing than Hayato probably intends it to be. Takeshi leaves his shoes behind him to pad down the hallway, unbuttoning his coat and slipping his already loosened tie entirely from its knot as he approaches Hayato’s hunched shoulders. “Anything fun?”

Hayato shifts his head slightly, a gesture towards looking over his shoulder that fails to coalesce into the reality of the motion. “Are you at all familiar with the premise of work?”

Takeshi laughs. “Work can be fun,” he says as he comes up behind Hayato’s chair and leans down to fold his arms across the back of it, pressing close to the white shirt whose rumpled disarray speaks as clearly to the length of Hayato’s day as the tousled waves of his hair. Takeshi cocks his head to the side to consider before lifting a hand to work gently against the worst of the tangles. “Depends on what you’re doing.”

“Well this isn’t,” Hayato says, moving sharply to cast the report in his hand down against the stack already in front of him. “Even you would be bored wading through this.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums, more in commiseration than protest. He slides his fingers through Hayato’s hair to brace his hold against the back of the other’s neck, where strain inevitably knots itself to the pain of a headache over the span of the endless hours that Hayato works himself. Hayato hisses at the grip of Takeshi’s fingers and Takeshi eases his hold slightly, drawing back to work around the worst of the tension instead of directly against it. “Can I help?”

“Not in any way that would be useful.” Hayato’s words are harsh but his body is easing, giving way to the persuasion of Takeshi’s grip with a grace that Takeshi suspects to be more of a reflex than anything else. Takeshi tips his head to the side, gauging the fit of his hands at Hayato’s shoulders as he steadies his hold and slides his thumb up behind the back of the other’s ear, and when he pulls gentle friction beneath his hold Hayato groans so far back in his throat that Takeshi feels the answering shudder of heat ground itself out at the lowest point of his belly. “Fuck, that feels good.”

Takeshi hums. “You always get tense when you’re reading reports.”

“No choice,” Hayato tells him without lifting his head from the sideways angle he’s adopted in implicit encouragement of Takeshi’s impromptu massage. “The Tenth can’t get through these all on his own.”

“Hmm,” Takeshi hums, and leans down to press his nose to the top of Hayato’s head. “Can they wait?”

Hayato groans. “They shouldn’t.” He lets his head dip heavy to the side, offering the line of his neck for the work of Takeshi’s hands for another moment; then he heaves a sigh and reaches up to urge Takeshi’s hand back as he shakes his head and straightens himself in his chair. “I need to get these done if I’m going to make it to bed before midnight.”

Takeshi gives up the effort of his fingers at Hayato’s neck but lets his hands linger at the other’s shoulders, drawing idle friction across the seam of Hayato’s shirt and up against the carefully-pressed edge of his collar. “Do you at least have time for a break?”

“Not really.” Hayato hunches forward under Takeshi’s hold, returning to the same forward slouch that ties all the knots in his shoulders that Takeshi has only just begun to work free. “Can’t you amuse yourself for the night, Takeshi?”

Takeshi hums. “Sure,” he says, and tips his head to the side to press his lips to the back of Hayato’s neck. Hayato’s head dips forward, a tiny surrender to the weight of Takeshi’s mouth in spite of his voiced protest, and Takeshi smiles against the other’s skin as he draws back to stand behind Hayato. “You just focus on your work.” He squeezes at Hayato’s shoulders, a physical representation of his verbal reassurance before he steps back and around the other’s chair as if he’s making to pull away.

Hayato doesn’t acknowledge Takeshi’s motion in drawing back. His shoulders are back to their hunch, his weight tipped far forward over the stack of papers in front of him; it’s enough to make Takeshi’s back begin to ache in sympathy just for seeing it, but Hayato doesn’t admit any discomfort beyond the intent lines of concentration pulling to a frown at his lips. He doesn’t glance back at Takeshi’s motion, doesn’t turn his head as the other moves beside him; it’s only when Takeshi drops to a knee next to his chair that Hayato looks over, and then it’s with the quick, sudden action of surprise behind the motion.

“What—?” He rocks back in his chair, his frown digging to a stern crease between his brows as he scowls at Takeshi. “What are you  _ doing_?”

Takeshi lifts his chin to blink up at Hayato. “Amusing myself,” he says, with as much wide-eyed innocence as he can fit into his expression. “Isn’t that what you wanted me to do?”

Hayato’s green eyes narrow as his mouth tightens. “Takeshi…”

“It’ll be fine,” Takeshi soothes. He tips himself sideways to sit at the floor, still keeping his head turned up so he can smile at Hayato sitting in front of him. He reaches out to drape his arm casually across the other’s lap, his fingers catching to easy possessiveness against the belt loop of Hayato’s dark slacks. “You don’t have to pay any attention to me at all.”

Hayato looks patently unconvinced, but Takeshi’s been facing down the other’s skeptical frown for a decade and he’s hardly about to give way to it now. He leans into the weight of his arm draping over Hayato’s lap, sliding his hand up to brace at the dip of the other’s back and tipping his head to rest against Hayato’s thigh as he smiles up at the other. “Just keep doing your work, Hayato.”

Hayato scoffs in the back of his throat, skepticism rasping disbelief onto his laugh, but he lifts his gaze away from Takeshi’s face to return it to the documents in front of him as he reaches to resume reading the report he was working on. Takeshi stays where he is, his fingers sliding against the seam of Hayato’s slacks and a smile playing at his mouth as he watches Hayato’s expression ease out of tolerant disbelief and soften into focus as attention to his reading overrides the effect of Takeshi’s distraction. Hayato’s shoulders drop back, his mouth softens from the tension of unwilling amusement, and Takeshi smiles and shifts to sit a little more upright as Hayato loses himself to the distraction of his work.

Hayato doesn’t look away from his report as Takeshi moves, although Takeshi is close enough that he can feel the tension of anticipation shiver through Hayato’s thighs and flex in his shoulders. Takeshi doesn’t look back up to see if Hayato is glancing at him; he keeps his head bowed and his gaze on what he’s doing as he fits his hands first to Hayato’s hips and then up, following the lean lines of the other’s body to the edges of his tucked-in shirt. Hayato doesn’t speak as Takeshi slides his hem up out of his pants; his only acknowledgment is in a drawn-out exhale, like he’s deliberately releasing the tension from his body to ease himself back into the support of his chair. His shoulders angle a little farther back as he relaxes, and Takeshi fits his thumbs under Hayato’s loosened shirt hem and pushes it up to bare an inch of the other’s skin.

Hayato is very pale under the weight of his clothes. He has never achieved the easy tan that darkens Takeshi’s skin anew each summer; he freckles when he’s lucky and burns when he isn’t, angry red across skin so fair that it seems nearly translucent in the thinnest places over his hipbones or across the elegant flex of his wrists. Takeshi is careful in the touch of his mouth, fitting his lips to the pale of Hayato’s stomach as gently as he can before he draws downward, following the taut of Hayato’s abdomen to the dip of his waistband, where a path of fine silver hair leads under the weight of the ostentatious belt buckle that is the last remnant of the middle schooler Hayato was when Takeshi met him. Takeshi smiles at the memory, bows his head to press a kiss just above the weight of heavy metal, and lifts his head to watch what he’s doing as he draws his hands up so he can work Hayato’s belt free from its hold.

Hayato shifts as Takeshi acts, lifting his free hand from his side to rest his wrist against the edge of the table over Takeshi’s head. Takeshi glances up once, but Hayato is still looking at his report with apparent focus. There is only the faintest crease between his brows to prove the tension rising in the put-upon relaxation of his body; that, and the heat Takeshi can feel forming beneath the work of his hands. Takeshi grins, soft and warm and savoring his own anticipation, and looks back to the effort of urging Hayato’s clothes open and away from his hips.

Hayato’s not hard yet as Takeshi frees him from his clothing; but there is a weight to the soft of his cock, a flush of promise that Takeshi feels heavy at his own lashes as he pushes Hayato’s clothes down and slides his hands up across the tops of Hayato’s thighs. One palm fits to Hayato’s hip, Takeshi’s fingers spreading wide to brace against the edge of bone so close under that pale skin; his other hand finds Hayato’s cock, his grip fitting to squeeze pressure against the soft give of it. Hayato’s thighs flex, his hip under Takeshi’s hold tips forward, and Takeshi can feel heat pulse against the grip of his fingers. He smiles, pleased and warm with anticipation, and then he ducks his head in so he can clasp Hayato within the heat of his mouth.

Takeshi loves this. He loves the taste of Hayato’s skin in any context, and the satisfying heat of the other’s cock filling his mouth is a particular pleasure to be savored no matter how often it presents itself. But this is its own kind of enjoyment, to feel the familiar texture of delicate skin against his lips and the weight of Hayato’s cock soft and giving against the press of Takeshi’s tongue. Takeshi can suck against him, can pull pulsing friction against the other’s length as he ducks his head in over Hayato’s lap, and against his lips Hayato is hardening, swelling hotter with each beat of his heart throbbing response to Takeshi’s efforts. Takeshi hums at the back of his throat, the vibration of sound half-muffled as Hayato thickens to fill the space of his mouth, until when Takeshi draws back to take a breath Hayato’s cock is standing fully erect before him.

Takeshi doesn’t look up. Hayato still has his hands at the table, is offering at least the illusion of continuing in his work, but Takeshi’s attention is fixed before him now and he doesn’t pause to glance up and see if Hayato is looking down at him, or if the other is still gazing at his report with his jaw tense on the effort of concentration. It’s Hayato’s job to go on working, to keep his mind on the reports he needs to get through; and Takeshi slides his arm in across Hayato’s stomach, and turns himself to his self-appointed task, and bows his head to take Hayato’s cock back into the warm wet of his mouth.

He doesn’t need to think about what he’s doing. He’s had years of practice to perfect his approach, to align his natural enthusiasm with the specifics of Hayato’s preferences; and there has never been very much difference between Hayato’s pleasure and Takeshi’s. Takeshi is happy to shut his eyes, to fix the whole of his attention on the press of his lips and the bob of his head as he draws Hayato deeper into his mouth. The slide of his tongue along the hot-smooth shaft is as much for his own appreciation as Hayato’s; the press of his lips to suck the salt from Hayato’s dark-flushed cockhead pulls a note from Takeshi’s chest that is more of a groan than the drag of Hayato’s breathing beginning to rasp over his head. Takeshi’s fingers flex against Hayato’s hip, his hold steadying the other as he ducks in closer, his breath spilling around the heat of Hayato’s arousal pressing to the back of his tongue; and then he turns his chin up to ease the angle of approach, and the head of Hayato’s cock slides forward and into the pull of Takeshi’s throat.

Hayato makes a sound over Takeshi’s head, a breathless gust of an exhale like it’s been knocked out of him. Takeshi can feel his thighs tighten, muscle flexing on sudden strain; but Hayato’s hands stay at the table, and when Takeshi draws back so he can free his throat for a deep draw of air he does so at his own pace, without urging or encouragement from the taut-line strain in Hayato’s body. Takeshi doesn’t lift his head to glance up, doesn’t pull away to free Hayato from the press of his lips before he’s leaning back in again, his arm tightening where it’s pressing low across Hayato’s stomach to take his weight as he draws Hayato back into his mouth. Takeshi lingers there for a moment, savoring the solid heat of Hayato’s desire pressing to his lips, filling his mouth, straining at the top of his throat, before pulling back for another slick slide along the other’s shaft.

Takeshi finds a rhythm immediately. He has to go slowly, there is none of the frantic speed he might find with hands or mouth alone, but there is an intention like this, a slow build of anticipation with every inch he swallows back into his mouth. Takeshi can taste Hayato’s heartbeat throbbing against his lips, can feel the rasp of salt at the back of his throat; he feels dizzy, lightheaded as much with the flush of heat in his own body as the enforced hesitation in the pattern of his breathing. Time is pulling apart, stretching long and lingering; Takeshi’s thoughts scatter in the space between his heartbeats, fluttering over the image he and Hayato are making in the time it takes him to slide his mouth down against the length of Hayato’s cock. Takeshi can picture it: Hayato sitting upright at the table, his mouth set tight and brows creased together, turning over page after page of interminable reports even as his cock throbs against Takeshi’s lips, as the heat of his arousal burns the back of Takeshi’s throat.

The image goes through Takeshi like electricity, shuddering along his spine and quivering at his thighs, and Hayato shifts, one of his legs pulling beneath Takeshi’s weight as he angles his foot out wider from the chair. His toes bump Takeshi’s thigh, sliding against the open line of the other’s wide-tilted leg, and as Takeshi’s hips buck up in reflexive answer Hayato’s foot slides between his legs to press resistance against the straining front of his slacks. Takeshi jerks at the friction, his body jolting forward to grind against the line of Hayato’s ankle, and when he groans the sound spills around the solid weight of Hayato filling his mouth. Takeshi drops his hand from Hayato’s hip to clutch at the back of the other’s knee as much to hold himself steady as to urge Hayato in closer, and he’s moving his head faster, now, pulling back in short movements that are hardly enough for him to seize a breath before he’s taking Hayato’s length again.

Takeshi’s thoughts are disintegrating, falling like leaves before the unthinking demand of instinct, and then there is weight at the back of his head, outstretched fingers sliding through his hair to palm against him and urge him forward and down. Takeshi ducks forward, obedient to the grip of Hayato’s fingers against him, and as the other’s length slides into his throat he feels Hayato’s hold tighten to fist at his hair. There is a sharp inhale, brief and raw with heat; and then Hayato’s cock throbs desperate force at Takeshi’s lips, and Takeshi feels the whole of the other’s body tighten and flex with the orgasm Hayato spills into his ready throat. Heat fills Takeshi’s mouth, pulsing through Hayato’s cock against his tongue, and as Hayato groans Takeshi whimpers pleasure that works voiceless upon the strain of Hayato filling his throat. Hayato’s hips jerk, riding Takeshi’s mouth through a last spasm of pleasure; and then Hayato sighs, a long breath of an exhale, and his other hand comes down to cradle Takeshi’s head between his palms as he draws the other back and away.

Takeshi gasps for air as his mouth clears, the sound rasping in his throat as Hayato’s fingers slide to stroke gently through his hair. His breathing is raw, his lips are wet, his tongue is sticky; but when he moves it is to bow his head over Hayato’s thigh, to press his forehead to the other’s slacks as he reaches to wrap his arm around Hayato’s waist. His hips come forward, pleading for friction as he grinds himself against Hayato’s ankle, and over his head there is a low purr of a laugh as Hayato’s fingers smooth into his hair.

“Come on,” Hayato says, and he’s leaning down, his shoulders curving in to shadow Takeshi as he braces his foot more firmly at the floor against the helpless want of Takeshi’s motion. Fingers slide through Takeshi’s hair, Hayato’s hands working to ruffle the soft dark of the strands as he leans in to ghost the heat of his breathing at the other’s ear. “Yeah, come on, just like this, Takeshi, just from this, let me feel—” and Takeshi chokes a breath, his hips jerking him helplessly forward as his cock pulses his orgasm against Hayato’s leg between his. Hayato sighs an exhale, warm and dark with pleasure, and when his lips press a kiss to Takeshi’s temple Takeshi turns his face up for it, still panting over the breathless rush of pleasure stripping him down to strengthless satisfaction where he’s kneeling at Hayato’s feet.

Takeshi drifts for a span, timeless and thoughtless in the haze of loose-limbed pleasure radiating through him. Hayato’s fingers are still drawing through his hair to tumble it out-of-order around his head; as the brilliance of immediate satisfaction eases into languid contentment Takeshi turns his head against Hayato’s thigh and tightens his arm around the other’s waist, bracing them closer together with the vague instinct of affection, and over the top of his head Hayato huffs a laugh that is knocked wide-open on satisfaction.

“So much for you amusing yourself.”

“Mm,” Takeshi says without opening his eyes. “Sorry.”

“You’re not,” Hayato reminds him, and Takeshi smiles and turns his head under Hayato’s touch to look up. Hayato is slouched back into his chair, the tension of responsibility loosened from his shoulders to let him recline; his cheeks are flushed as warm as his mouth, where a smile is tugging unresisted at the corner of his lips.

“Neither are you,” Takeshi says. “It was nice, right?”

Hayato presses his hand to Takeshi’s hair to rumple through all of it at once in a single long stroke. “It was,” he says. “I really  _ do _ have to get back to work.”

Takeshi smiles. “That’s okay,” he says. “I should clean up anyway.”

Hayato snorts. “Be easier if you lasted long enough to get your pants off.”

“Yeah,” Takeshi admits. “It’s just hard when you’re so good to look at.”

Hayato arches an eyebrow. “Yeah,” he says. “I noticed.” Takeshi laughs and after a moment Hayato’s expression cracks into a grin of his own. He slides his hands down out of Takeshi’s hair, catching the other’s face between both palms as he leans forward. “Go clean yourself up and leave me be.”

Takeshi reaches up to curl his fingers around the back of Hayato’s neck, just under the trailing edges of silver-soft hair. Hayato capitulates without any urging at all, tipping forward as Takeshi turns his face up into expectation. Hayato’s mouth is soft against his, with none of the exasperation of his words, and he doesn’t pull away until Takeshi eases his hold and lets his kiss give way to a smile.

“Okay,” Takeshi says. “Thanks for taking a break.”

“You didn’t give me much choice,” Hayato says, but he’s still smiling, even when he drops his hand to push at Takeshi’s shoulder. “Get out of here, baseball idiot.”

Takeshi laughs. “Okay, okay,” he says, and untangles himself from Hayato so he can get to his feet as the other pulls his clothes back into order. Hayato pushes a hand through his hair and shakes his head as if to recenter himself, and he’s leaning back in over the table to reach for his report before Takeshi has moved towards the hallway. When Takeshi pauses to look back Hayato looks as absorbed as he did upon Takeshi’s entrance: but his shoulders are softer, his forehead smoother, and at the corners of his mouth there’s the hint of a smile instead of the tension of a frown. Takeshi watches him for a minute, appreciating the view; then he ducks his head and turns away to the hallway, content with a job well done.


End file.
